


So, We'll Go No More A Roving

by Mira



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set 56 years in the future.  John and Sherlock come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So, We'll Go No More A Roving

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the [Lady of Asheru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Asheru/pseuds/Asheru) for her help!

  
**So, We'll Go No More A Roving**   


2068, East Sussex, England 

He walked from the village, south down a gently curving road. Old, he saw by the steep bank covered with tumbling wild roses, their small pink blossoms redolent in the warm, still afternoon. There was no sound except his feet on the cambered macadam road, though when he stopped and held his breath, he thought he could hear the sea. 

The downland stretched to his left for perhaps a half mile, mostly treeless, before disappearing into the pale blue sky. He started walking again, checking his chronometer, and as he came round the curve he saw that a stream cut across the road around which the land had folded and across which an island of elm trees had grown. He paused again, hesitant. 

He was fifty-four years old yet trembling like a child at Christmas. He laughed at himself, and wiped his eyes. Nothing for it but to go on, to discover if his work was any good or if he'd been a fool. He straightened his back, adjusted his hat, and walked down the hill, toward the home he knew to be hidden amidst the elms. "There should be one oak," he reminded himself, and as he drew nearer he saw there was, a low broad English oak, _quercus robar_ , looming over a thatched barn-shaped building with white-washed walls that gleamed through the shadows of the trees. As he drew nearer, he saw behind the cottage a tidy garden with rows of onions, lettuces, tomatoes, and baby cabbages and, beyond that, three beehives. He knew then that he was right, and the thrill made him break into a jog. 

He was panting when he turned in the gate onto the flag path that led to a heavy wooden door. He paused to study it. He didn't think it was often used because there was a well-trod path around the side of the house, directly beneath the oak, so he followed it, slower now, more cautious. 

When he reached the corner he put his hand on top of a waist-high white-washed wall and just stared. He could have been in any century, he thought, from five hundred years ago to as many in the future. All was still, not a leaf stirred, not even the bees were humming, and the world smelt of turned earth, of young plants, and of the honeysuckle growing up the side of the building. Just beyond the wall a level area had been graveled and a wooden trestle table stood, with two wooden chairs pulled up to it. A book lay open, face down, and he drew nearer, curious as to what it was. When he saw the title, The Beekeeper's Bible, he laughed out loud. 

"John?" he called. Surely they were here. "John Watson?" 

"Who are you?" a voice said behind him, low and firm. He spun and his vision narrowed until he could see only a gun, like something out of the movies; he'd never before seen one in real life. He stepped backwards, raising his hands. "Well?" 

"He's a relation, John, can't you see?" 

He finally tore his eyes away from the weapon and looked at the men. "Oh," he said faintly, and staggered toward the wall. "I was right." He started to laugh. "I was bloody well right!" But he was crying again. He sat down suddenly, his hat tumbling off. "What does a heart attack feel like, Uncle John?" he asked, wiping his face. 

"Who are you?" John asked him again, but the gun was gone and John knelt next to him, calmly taking his pulse. "Sherlock, get some water. Do you have a heart condition?" 

"No, no," he said. "It's just -- I've wanted this moment since I was a little boy. The stories I heard, all my life, everything I worked for." He sighed and finally really looked at his uncle. "John Hamish Watson. And Sherlock Vernet Holmes," he added as Sherlock handed him down a perspiring glass of water. "Thank you." He gulped at the water, discovering he was thirsty from his long walk. "It is so good to meet you," he said when he'd drunk it all. 

John raised his eyebrows, and silently helped him up. "Come inside and explain," Sherlock told him, and he followed Sherlock into the back garden then through a wide sliding door into an old-fashioned flagstone kitchen, with dishes drying in a wooden rack and a kettle with two ceramic mugs next to it. "Tea?" Sherlock asked, flicking the kettle on and drawing down another mug from the open cupboard, then a yellow rooster of a teapot. 

"Sit," John urged him, and he sat, watching the two men in a kind of awe. John and Sherlock stood facing him, their arms crossed, and waited. 

"I'm -- really glad to meet you," he finally said. "I apologize for, for dropping in so unexpectedly, but I had to be sure it was you. Can I ask how long you've lived here?" 

They glanced at each other, and John frowned. "I believe you should explain yourself," Sherlock said. 

He glanced at the kettle but no hope there; it would take a while to boil. "This could be difficult to believe," he started. Odd, he thought; all the times he'd imagined this moment he had never bothered to come up with any kind of speech for them. Helena would have -- well, that's why he was here in a way, because of Helena. At last he said, "I know I'm older than either of you, but I'm your nephew. I'm Harriet's son. Harriet and Clara were my mothers. And," he looked at Sherlock, "Mycroft is my biological father." 

John snorted but Sherlock put his hand on John's forearm. "I believe he is telling the truth." 

"Harry and Mycroft? And he's got to be a decade older than I am!" 

"Yes, I am intrigued by that." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "So you're our nephew. Your name?" 

"Hamish Siger Barcombe Holmes Watson," he said proudly. He'd always loved his names. 

"Barcombe?" Sherlock asked. 

"Clara's surname," John said just as he said, "Ma's last name." 

The kettle began to rattle and then boil. John opened a packet of Hobnobs and set them in the middle of the table while Sherlock poured the water into the teapot. They fussed together in well-rehearsed routine while Hamish watched. His stomach growled and John glanced over his shoulder with a grin, lifting his chin toward the biscuits. "Thank you," Hamish said, and greedily took one. 

When they were sorted and drinking their tea, Sherlock said, "How came Mycroft to impregnate Harry?" John choked, but Hamish just laughed. 

"Not in the, er, usual way," he said, and settled to tell his story. Their story, really. But then he sobered. "It started when, when you fell," he finally said. John looked down into his mug, and Sherlock leaned his shoulder against John's. "You fell, and John was --" 

"I know what I was," John snapped. "What I don't know is how you know any of this." 

"John," Sherlock rumbled. 

"You stayed with Mum for a while, remember? She was so worried about you. Then you moved back to Baker Street, and then you disappeared. I looked it up online; it was in The Guardian and The Times and of course in all the red tops, especially The Scum." He frowned in recollection of the more vicious articles he'd read. "I wasn't born yet, of course, but I've heard the story a hundred times. How you always believed in Sherlock, and how no body was ever found." John paled; Hamish knew he was thinking of his sister. "No, it's all right," he hastened to add. "Uncle Mycroft was around and somehow he knew. And then Uncle Greg --" 

"Uncle Greg?" John and Sherlock asked in unison. 

"Oh, yeah, you won't know that part either. Did you know that Greg divorced his first wife? And then married again right away but it was a disaster, according to Mum; she knew him then because of John's disappearance. Ma said he married -- well, never mind why. Or who! Anyway, he wasn't allowed to investigate John's disappearance because it was never officially declared a murder, so not his division, but unofficially he did a lot. Spent a lot of time with Mum and Ma back then, and that's how he and Uncle Mycroft eventually got together." 

"Dear god," Sherlock said faintly. 

"Are you telling me that Mycroft and Greg, that they --" John trailed off. They looked at each other. 

"Yes, of course. Surely _you_ knew how they felt about each other?" Hamish asked Sherlock. 

"Well, I knew Mycroft had, had _feelings_ ," Sherlock said, drawing his chin in and making a face. Hamish laughed. 

"But what are you doing here? Now?" John pressed him. 

"I grew up with the stories," he explained. "How amazing Sherlock was, and how you changed him, John, and how Sherlock saved you. Mum loved you both so much, and Ma did, too, even though she'd never met Sherlock. And of course Mycroft and Greg, too, so I was surrounded by people who believed in you. 

"Then, when I read physics at Cambridge, Mycroft took me to a very lengthy and private lunch and explained his theories. He wasn't enough of a scientist to do anything, but he knew that Sherlock, despite your, um, less than stellar scholarly achievements, was an autodidact and could do anything. Including disappear with John." 

"Mycroft," Sherlock started, and then stopped abruptly. John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. 

"Mycroft loves you," John said softly in Sherlock's ear, but Hamish overheard and said, "Yes, and I know how much you fought, your battles were famous. Miriel -- she sometimes was Anthea? She told me how horrible you could be to each other, but that Mycroft only wanted the best for you. And that when you found John, he knew you'd be all right. So when John disappeared, he knew you would be together." 

"How did you find us?" Sherlock asked. 

Hamish drank more tea and looked longingly at the biscuits before continuing. "As I said, I read physics and when Mycroft realized I was quite serious and, frankly, rather good at it, he told me what he believed. And I realized that I already knew -- that the adults around me had come to an agreement, that you had somehow taken John and yourself into the future. 

"I wasn't sure why Mycroft thought the future rather than the past, because the energy required to move back would be exponentially less, but he explained that you loved technology and would be miserable in 1895. He said I should look to the future. He gave me the key to 221B Baker and I used it as a pied-à-terre while at Cambridge and later in Geneva. I work at CERN. I mean, I worked at CERN; I quit a year ago to work full-time to find you." 

They sat in silence for a while, Hamish remembering why he'd quit, and how angry he still was at his wife's betrayal. The insouciance of her confession. Well, that was over, and he'd done this, found his uncles who'd been lost for over fifty years. 

"You used gravitation time dilation, didn't you," he suddenly said to Sherlock, who nodded, looking grave. "Mycroft gave me the papers you left in Baker Street, and started me on my life's work. I carried them with me for years, eventually digitizing them so I'd always have them. What you achieved, Sherlock -- it was beyond brilliant. As far as I know, you are still the only person from that time period to have achieved this." 

"From that time period?" John asked. 

"Yes, well, it isn't common now; we don't live in a Connie Willis novel, but experiments have been successful. Even I took a short trip back, and nearly met myself coming out a Tesco. As far as I know, though, no one has jumped as far ahead as you two have." 

"It was horrible," John said. "We were both sick for weeks." 

"Yeah, that's still common," Hamish said, nodding. "I have some ideas about that, but I need a biomechanical engineer. Ha." 

"Ha?" Sherlock asked. 

"Ha. My ex-wife is now with my biomechanical engineer, and may they be very happy." He scowled. 

"Sorry," John said, and he did look sorry. 

"Mum was right," Hamish said. "You're a nice person. She always said you were too nice, but then Mycroft would remind her that you'd been a soldier and killed people. Ma said she was sure you'd killed them very nicely." They laughed at that, and Hamish saw how pleased John was to have been remembered. "How long have you been here? In your timeline, I mean?" 

"A bit over two years," John said, looking at Sherlock. 

"Wow. You know it's been fifty-six years in my calendar." 

There was a long pause, and then John said, "So everyone is. Everyone is dead." 

Hamish took a sip of his tea, now cool. "Almost everyone," he said quietly. "Mum went first, of course. She hadn't taken care of herself when she was younger. Ma and Greg passed away within two years of each other, Greg first. He had a massive stroke and died in bed. Ma was killed in a train crash; she was coming to Geneva to see me. 

"But Mycroft is still alive. You could go see him." 

"Mycroft would be one hundred and eight years old," Sherlock said slowly. 

"Yes, and very frail. I didn't tell him what I was doing, I didn't want to disappoint him. He's been so good to me, a wonderful uncle. He and Greg were like fathers to me." 

He let Sherlock and John consider his news. He had understood that he would have to tell them that the people they loved and who had loved them were gone, that much he had prepared for. And he missed them as well, especially now that Helena was gone. It was absurd, a man of his age and achievements, but he wished he could tell Ma about her. Mum would get angry, she was so hot tempered, but Ma would have hugged him and they would have had tea and found something to laugh at. Greg would have bought him a pint or three and then played darts. Mycroft had just listened. 

"It's safe to come back now," he added. "Though this is lovely." 

John and Sherlock looked at each other. John took Sherlock's hand and Hamish suddenly realized that this was newish for them. He'd grown up assuming they were a couple, that they were as married as his mothers and his uncles, but they'd only just reached this point. Probably just before they'd come here, he guessed; why else would they have given up the world? Only for each other. He smiled into his mug. 

"We'll stay here," Sherlock finally said. "It's all --" he stopped abruptly. 

John said, "We're just settled in, you see, with the garden and bees and even a little detective work. But we will come back to see Mycroft," he added firmly. Then he smiled. "Is Baker Street still available?" 

"It's still in your names," Hamish said, smiling back at his uncle. "Mycroft made sure of that, though I'm living there since Helena left. Oh, you're wealthy! Mycroft took care of that, too. 

Sherlock sniffed and glanced away, but John grinned. "Wealthy? Me, too? How'd he -- oh, never mind. I think I'd like a new tablet, like that one you showed me last week." 

"You could have that now!" Sherlock said, sounding affronted. 

There was another long pause. Outdoors, a skylark began to sing, its liquid notes joyous in the summer afternoon. John continued to hold Sherlock's hand, who leaned against his shoulder again, and Hamish smiled to himself. This was good, he thought, to be able to see them so close to their beginning. "Bloody hell!" John said suddenly, his eyes wide. "I just realized that if Mycroft is one hundred and eight, then I'm ninety-seven and you're ninety-two, no, ninety-three!" 

"You don't look a day over forty," Hamish told him earnestly, hoping to make him laugh, but he only got a smile. 

"How did you know we'd be here, now?" Sherlock asked. 

"Ah. That took some doing. From your notes, primarily, though you were canny in what you left behind." Sherlock nodded. "But also the expenditure of energy required meant that without going nuclear, you couldn't move much further into the future. Nor would you want to, I think. Languages change, governments change, who knew what you might find in one or two hundred years. 

"As to why here -- well, Mycroft told me that you'd spent time here as a child and loved it. Your mother's mother, my great-grandmother, lived here, and the house had been in her family for generations. Technically, I think I own it now." 

"And what about you, Hamish?" John asked. "What happened that you started looking now?" 

"From Sherlock's notes I knew that you would be here, but due to my uncertainty about how he powered the move, I was faced with a five to seven year margin of error. I thought that coming later was wiser -- you could be here longer -- but if I came too early, I'd miss you. I thought about using Sherlock's notes and subsequent research into the Alcubierre variant and jumping forward myself. But I realized that I could simply wait, continue working, spend time with my family. Except the kids grew up and then Helena left me. So I thought: fuck it." He shrugged. "It was time anyway. And if you weren't here now, I'd try again next year." 

"But why today?" John pressed him. 

"You know why," Sherlock said, slowly smiling. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah, I thought -- I mean, it's silly, I know, but remember, I've had this idea my entire life. So it's Sherlock's birthday. I thought that would be a good day to, well. I mean, I'm not much of a gift --" 

"But you are," Sherlock said, and Hamish was surprised to see how surprised John was. "I never thought to have a nephew, let alone a brilliant physicist." 

"I'm sorry I missed -- well, your life," John said, frowning. 

"I am, too, but John, if you hadn't disappeared, if Sherlock hadn't fallen, if Moriarty hadn't staged that whole horrific lie, then Mum and Mycroft certainly never would have become friends, and Mum and Ma never would have got back together, and Greg and Mycroft might not have turned to each other, and then _I_ would never have existed for you to meet." 

"You've thought about this," Sherlock said. 

"Of course I have! It's my life. All of us, our lives were in some way focused on you two. Mycroft was certain, and as I studied I became certain, and Mum wanted to believe, and Greg believed Mycroft, and it was a circle of belief in you two, that you were together and happy, and that you'd take care of each other." Hamish realized he was speaking too passionately, but damn it, he had wanted that with Helena, had thought he'd had it. "My kids believe it, too, and you need to meet them. Joan and Sherlock," he said, smiling. "Oh, hey," he pulled out his phone. "Here they are." He handed it to Sherlock who began flicking through the images. "Joanie's a brilliant chemist, and that's your fault, too, Sherlock. My Sherlock wants to be a writer, and that's John's influence." 

Hamish saw tears glinting in John's eyes, and stopped talking. "More tea," he mumbled, and got up to refill the kettle, leaving the two men to review this unexpected family. 

"Our great-nephew and great-niece," John murmured to Sherlock, who said something back in his soft baritone, too quietly for Hamish to understand. "Yeah," John said softly. "I'd like that." 

Hamish smiled to himself as he flicked on the kettle. He rinsed out the teapot and spooned in fresh tea. When he'd finished, he saw Sherlock watching him. "Hamish Siger Barcombe Holmes Watson," Sherlock said, and held out his hand. "I am very glad to meet you." 

* * *

Mycroft rarely left the daybed in his study anymore. It was comfortable, with a firm mattress, the room was well lit both day and night, and his most favorite objets d'art were arranged in the study, along with precious books and photographs of his family. His surprisingly large family. He often examined them, bringing the images close to his weakened eyes.

So Sherlock was coming home. He stared at the photo Hamish had emailed him of John and Sherlock, both looking a bit shocked. His little brother was coming back. 

Mycroft closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He was tired. He had stubbornly stayed alive, waiting for this day. Hamish had told him several years ago when he thought Sherlock and John would appear again, and he'd taken the news as a challenge. He wanted to see Sherlock one last time. He would know how hard Mycroft had worked for him: to turn the tide of public opinion, to clear Greg from any suspicion, to punish those who had tried to profit from Sherlock's death, and to secure a good life for Sherlock and John after Mycroft had gone. He'd even had a child in the hope he would care for Sherlock and John when Mycroft no longer could. 

And what a child: fierce, independent, tall and leggy like a young Sherlock, with nearly the same energy and intellect, but tempered by his Watson side, and raised in a much happier family than he and Sherlock had been. Hamish exceeded all Mycroft's hope, and he felt himself tear up as he recollected his son's birth and early years. What a delight, an unexpected delight. Even Harry had been a surprise. John's disappearance had utterly transformed her, as had Clara's return and Hamish's birth. He missed her sharp tongue and boisterous laugh and wished he could tell her. If only he could believe in some afterlife. What comfort that would bring. 

But soon Sherlock would be here. Only two years older than when he'd disappeared. Would he have had time to forgive Mycroft's betrayal? Would all that Mycroft had done over the long years be enough to earn his forgiveness? For when had Sherlock ever forgiven anyone anything? Would John? Nearly sixty years later, Mycroft still burned when he recalled John's words to him that night in the Diogenes Club. Would he see how Mycroft had cared for Harry and Clara? Would that be enough? 

Mycroft had never been enough for Sherlock; he knew he was foolish to hope he had changed in the two short years since the fall. But he did hope; his entire life had been created out of that hope. 

So he waited for Hamish to bring his wayward little brother home. He had waited a long, long time for this day, and now the time was nearly here. He would finally face his judge and jury. 

He heard voices. A knock at the study door. A longed-for voice spoke his name. He trembled. His future had finally arrived. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Lord Byron poem of the same name:  
> So we'll go no more a roving  
>  So late into the night,  
> Though the heart be still as loving,  
>  And the moon be still as bright.  
> For the sword outwears its sheath,  
>  And the soul wears out the breast,  
> And the heart must pause to breathe,  
>  And Love itself have rest.  
> Though the night was made for loving,  
>  And the day returns too soon,  
> Yet we'll go no more a roving  
>  By the light of the moon.


End file.
